


Aspirations

by aliatori



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Sparring, t-rated feels shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15408813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/pseuds/aliatori
Summary: Cor didn’t miss a beat before responding. “You really that interested in me?” The Marshal was always direct, but there was a hint of challenge in the question that was new to Gladio. A light flashed through Cor’s eyes that could be dismissed an fleeting illusion created by the firelight… or it could be something more.Gladio undertakes an additional, far more personal challenge during the Trial of Gilgamesh.





	Aspirations

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a completely collaborative effort with the wonderful, talented, and ever amazing [chiii](https://twitter.com/chi_peppers). [You can find the comic counterpart on Tumblr here](https://chipeppers.tumblr.com/post/176211685695/cordio-weekend-day-1-day-3-hero-worship) and [over on Twitter here](https://twitter.com/chi_peppers/status/1021555279098306563) so please check it out and show it some love!
> 
> Written for Cordio Weekend, day one: hero worship and day three: distracted during training.

Stopping to sit around a campfire allowed time for the full weight of the Tempering Grounds to settle on Gladio’s shoulders, an invisible mantle he couldn’t shed until his task ended—one way or the other.

Gladio crossed his legs, shifting positions to ease a twinge in his lower back, and nearly knocked over the two empty Cup Noodle containers beside him in the process. Time ebbed and flowed in unpredictables pattern here, a mercurial tide washed in on the backs of ghosts, but at least Gladio had mundane markers in the form of styrofoam cups to track its passage. He’d thought entering this place would cleanse him of the fear that drove him here to begin with.

It hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.

Better to let that thought go. Gladio neared the final trial where the Blademaster himself awaited, and he couldn’t afford the luxury of doubt.

He sought out Cor’s eyes across the fire; the steely gaze, immutable and unchanging, weighed on Gladio too, but the density of it proved reassuring, not distressing. If he let his focus waver, Cor could be another denizen of the Tempering Grounds, features obscured in flickering shadow and expression stern. The Marshal had always been larger than life, all the way back to the first memories Gladio had of him. 

Cor wasn’t the chatty type—never had been—but Gladio had learned more about him in this (stupid, necessary, reckless) trial than he had in all the years he’d known the man. He worried for a second that he might be pushing his luck with all the questions. Then again… hearing Cor’s thoughts on the matter might be comforting. Not that ‘comforting’ was an adjective Gladio often used to describe Cor; the Marshal’s idea of comfort usually consisted of beating Gladio black and blue in the sparring ring until he didn’t have the energy to be upset.

But the silence in the dark, cavernous space quickly became ominous, so Gladio chose to take a risk.

“Well, what about you? I wanna know what was going through your head back then.”

Cor didn’t miss a beat before responding. “You really that interested in me?” The Marshal was always direct, but there was a hint of challenge in the question that was new to Gladio. A light flashed through Cor’s eyes that could be dismissed an fleeting illusion created by the firelight… or it could be something more.

Gladio snorted and gave a quiet chuckle, caught off guard by the sudden intensity. Even though Cor referred to his history with the Blademaster—or at least, that’s what Gladio assumed he was referring to—Gladio didn’t take it that way.

He _couldn’t_ take it that way.

* * *

Gladio’s first time in uniform feels just as awesome as he hoped it would. 

Dad made him wash and starch it himself, which had eaten up most of his morning, but the stiff texture and fresh scent makes up for the extremely early alarm. Taking it out of his closet where it has been waiting for the past year, unzipping the protective cover, and running his hands over the fabric had been an entirely surreal experience, but now that the day is actually here, Gladio struggles to contain his excitement.

He stands with his hands behind his back, head held high (like Dad always says, half of confidence is looking the part), and waits at ease until someone comes to lead him to the induction ceremony. Gladio’s caught glimpses of other cadets on days where he visits Dad at the Citadel, or by peeking into the central office on his way home from practice, and can hardly believe his day has arrived.

Gladio’s _first_ day, he should say. The first day of many days on his path as an Amicitia, on his path to become Prince Noctis’s Shield, on his path to fulfill the duty that’s been entrusted to him—just like it had been to his Dad. 

When a heavy side door swings open and Cor comes into view, an unexpected pang of nervousness shoots through Gladio. The _thump thump thump_ of Cor’s boots along the marble floor echoes, both in the room itself and in time with Gladio’s pulse.

He shouldn’t be nervous about _Cor_ of all people, but he is, if only a little. Cor trains him on days where he doesn’t have other duties to attend to, and Gladio sees him at their house when he comes to meet with Dad, but it doesn’t make him any less… intimidating? He always walks into a room the same way his Dad does, but quieter, like he wants you to follow his orders without having to say them out loud.

Gladio hasn’t gotten the hang of that particular skill, but he keeps trying anyway.

Cor halts a couple of steps in front of where Gladio waits and turns his head a fraction, studying him through his peripheral vision.

“Gladio.” Though Cor’s face remains as expressionless as ever, there’s a sharp glint in his eyes that usually means a reprimand is coming. It’s the same look he gets when Gladio falls for an obvious feint during training.

The single word combined with the critical gaze makes Gladio stand at attention, arms snapping to his sides in the space of a blink. “Yes, sir?”

“Your collar.”

Sure enough, Gladio’s collar has gone crooked between leaving home and waiting for the other cadets to arrive. Though he’s nearly as tall as Cor at thirteen, he shrinks a few feet under the Marshal’s regard, highly embarrassed at the oversight. As Gladio adjusts his collar, Cor turns to face him, folding his arms over his chest and inclining his head ever so slightly to the side. 

“Clarus would have both our hides if I let you leave this room with a uniform infraction,” Cor says, not quite as sternly as Gladio expected, but commanding all the same.

“Thank you, sir,” Gladio says, uncertain of the response Cor wants but figuring good manners never hurt. He stands at attention once more under Cor’s watchful gaze, waiting for any further orders.

“Don’t let it happen again, Gladio.” Cor’s already walking towards the exit as soon as he finishes his sentence.

“No, sir!” Gladio calls after his retreating form. The closer Cor gets to the door, the more Gladio relaxes, finally clasping his hands behind his back once he disappears from view.

As much as it annoys Gladio that he made it in the first place, he’s grateful to Cor for pointing out the mistake. His dad’s been harping for weeks about how important this first impression is, and having it ruined by a stupid wrinkle would be gutting.

All Gladio wants is for people to be proud of him—for people like his dad and Cor to be proud of him—and to see him as worthy of the Amicitia name.

It’s the first day of many, and Gladio knows he has a long way to go.

* * *

“So… yeah,” Gladio said, lifting his gaze from the stone floor of the cavern to meet Cor’s own, “I guess what I’m trying to say is... I am. Always have been.”

“Because I didn’t let you attend your induction with a crooked collar?” Cor deadpanned.

“No, because I still can’t figure you out. Hard to see beyond the badass Immortal thing you’ve got going on.” Gladio waved both hands in the air for a moment, the gesture uncertain.

“Not many do,” Cor said with a tiny, fleeting twitch of his lips.

“I figured,” Gladio said, “but I’ve gotten a few hints here and there.”

“Such as?”

A memory surfaced, bringing with it a story, and Gladio began to speak.

* * *

Years pass and Cor remains a fixed, unyielding point in Gladio’s life. They’ve reached an easier rapport now that Gladio’s older, glimmers of the _promise_ of camaraderie woven between their day to day interactions. The actual concept… well, it’s a work in progress. Cor radiates an aura of invincibility, impenetrable and vast. That aura is one of the many reasons Gladio hesitates to call him familiar, because the Marshal is anything but that, full of the most minute surprises he’d miss if he blinked. 

He doesn’t blink—he doesn’t dare. Not when it comes to Cor.

It’s harder for him to see the changes in himself, but they’re there, visible from the surface of the mirror on the back of his bedroom door to the endless stream of calls and texts exchanged with Noct. Good thing he’s got broad shoulders, because the responsibilities sure are piling up on them, and he hasn’t even been officially sworn in as Noct’s Shield yet. More shifts at the Citadel, more sitting in on meetings with his dad, 

Getting his ass handed to him during training hasn’t changed much, though.

“We’ll switch to practice weapons,” Cor says. He dismisses his katana by opening his fingers and letting it disappear in a shower of crystalline sparks. There’s no flash to his unsummoning, no dramatic fling of the arm like Noct or elaborate flourish like Ignis, but then again, Cor’s never been the flashy type.

Gladio almost sucks in a breath through his teeth at the order—because really, there’s no mistaking it for what it is—and bites down on the urge. No point provoking the Marshal. He copies Cor’s gesture and sends his own greatsword back to the Armiger. As he walks over to the rack of practice weapons, Cor’s gaze drills into his back, boring a hole right between his shoulder blades. The hollow, mock blade feels more like a toy than a weapon, but orders are orders, so Gladio obeys.

“Why the switch?” Gladio asks, inching towards the outer edges of informality.

“Your form was sloppy, and that’s being generous. Gaining the strength to wield your blade one handed doesn’t mean you can neglect the basics.” Cor moves to the centre of the sparring mats with his practice katana in hand. He’s hard to read at the best of times, but Gladio thinks he can see the vestiges of disappointment in the stoic set of his mouth.

Then Cor puts one arm behind his back, holding his katana at the ready, and the judgement becomes evident.

“Really?” Gladio asks flatly. “Sir?” He tacks on the last word as an afterthought. Cor hasn’t done the whole ‘I can beat you with one arm tied behind my back’ trick for at least a year.

“If you have the energy to complain, we can move to physical conditioning for the rest of this session.” Cor’s expression remains neutral, but there’s a definitive, steely glint to his pale blue eyes. 

Gladio gives a harsh, quick laugh as he falls into his own ready stance. “No, sir. I’m good.” He has no desire to test Cor on this point, not when said ‘physical conditioning’ will have him bruised and sore for the next three days; he’ll just have to channel the embarrassed anger simmering and roiling in his gut into a good showing.

“Good,” Cor echoes, gaze returning to normal, “then let’s begin.”

There’s a flash of black and silver as Cor lashes out, quick as a serpent and twice as deadly. Gladio barely raises his blade in time to parry the blow aimed straight at his chest. The volume of the hollow _crack_ their weapons make attests to the force behind Cor’s onslaught. Though he’s all lean, wiry muscle compared to Gladio’s broad bulk, he rivals him in terms of raw power—maybe even surpasses him. Gladio side steps another strike that bypasses his ear in a whistling rush of air. He doesn’t dodge the follow up, however; Cor wallops him on the shoulder with a vicious strike, pain blossoming outwards from the source of the impact. 

“Focus, Gladio!” Cor snaps, following the first blow with another in the exact same spot, drawing a grunt of pain from Gladio. “In a real fight, you’d be dead. Stop wasting our time and move!”

Anger and determination intertwine and rise within him like a tide. Cor wants him to focus? Sure. He can do that.

Gritting his teeth, Gladio shifts his stance and goes for an overhead strike with his greatsword. It’s telegraphed, obvious, but it still forces Cor to go on the defensive long enough to parry it. The practice blade vibrates so hard in his grip that for a second he thinks it might break in half. Gladio follows it with a sideways sweep, feet planted firmly on the ground and hips pivoting to lend force to the blow; Cor has to drop and roll across the black sparring mats to avoid being hit.

Gladio grins, lip curled in a delighted snarl, and lunges forward to take advantage of the opening. Cor’s up and ready before Gladio crosses the distance, swinging his blade in a low arc. Gladio avoids taking a hit to the knees by doing a little jump backwards and then redoubles his assault.

His anger bleeds into grit as the bout continues. Despite keeping one hand behind his back, Cor moves with fluid, destructive grace, always one (literal) step away from getting inside Gladio’s guard. Their practice weapons clash again and again. They blur through the air, the match picking up in speed and intensity. Sweat begins to bead at Gladio’s temples and along his neck where his tied back hair rests—they’d only just started when Cor demanded the switch from live steel—and it feels _good_.

Training with Cor is hard work, always has been, but Gladio loves being able to throw his all into it. With Noct he’s constantly holding back, measuring his strength, calculating the best ways to challenge him and shore up the areas of improvement. With Ignis and some of the other ‘Guard, it’s more of a challenge, sure, but he’s still more likely to win than not. With Cor…

With Cor, he can go all out. He’s _expected_ to go all out, do to his best and better, to push himself to excel. There’s a new goal each time he meets one, new heights to aspire to, and it’s as freeing as it is demanding.

Cor holds up a hand, pausing their bout.

“Good. You’ve finally decided to show up,” Cor says, deadpan, but there’s the _tiniest_ quirk to one corner of his mouth, one that Gladio only notices because he knows what to look for. “Are you ready to begin in earnest?”

“Of course,” Gladio responds, eager to get some real work in.

When Cor walks to the side of the sparring ring, sets his practice blade aside, and summons the real thing, Gladio copies the motions. They meet again in the middle, and this time, Cor doesn’t have one hand behind his back.

Perfect.

The momentum of the match picks up right where it left off. Metal meets metal in a ringing cacophony, each sound bolstering Gladio’s resolve, honing his focus to a razor’s edge. He’s gratified when Cor finally breaks a sweat—just a light sheen across his face and arms, darkening patches of his casual athletic clothing, but it means Gladio’s making him work, which means he’s holding up his end of the bargain. The intensity of his expression never changes as he unleashes a flurry of blows against Gladio, katana glinting in the lights of the training room. In spite of the many, _many_ hours Gladio’s spent matched up against Cor, his speed continues to be an advantage, forcing Gladio back on the defensive.

“You have other assets besides your strength,” Cor barks as they circle one another, preparing for the next engagement. “Use them.”

So far, scoring a victory against Cor has eluded Gladio. It continues to elude him now. His muscles begin to ache with fatigue as he fends off Cor’s assault. The Marshal attacks at a relentless pace, feet weaving and blade flashing, dodging Gladio’s comparatively sluggish counterattacks with ease. Frustration flares within Gladio, threatening to erode his focus, but he clenches his teeth and doubles down.

He can’t find an opening in Cor’s defense no matter how hard he tries. Sweat soaks his singlet and drips from his forehead. The sounds of singing metal, padding feet, and harsh breathing fill the training room. Cor moves in a calm furor, brandishing his blade like an extension of his body. Each moment their weapons meet sends Gladio’s pulse climbing higher. It thunders through his ears in time with their match, grounding him, a thread he clings to in order to stay grounded.

Other assets, Cor had said. What other assets? As hard as Gladio tries to match him, to _best_ him, he’s outmatched in most categories: experience, speed, stamina. He might be Cor’s equal in strength, and by virtue of height alone he has better reach, but…

Reach.

The realization hits him so hard that he nearly earns himself a scar courtesy of Cor’s blade for his carelessness. He’s been pushed back close to the far wall of the training room, but Gladio waits, defends, searching for the set of circumstances he needs. Gladio gets a little reckless, slashing his greatsword out in powerful arcs; he forces Cor backwards, carves out more space, but doesn’t catch him off guard.

He’s not going to be able to gain the advantage with his greatsword alone, but that’s not the only weapon at his disposal.

Cor tends to crouch in his stance, coiled like a spring, pure tension waiting to release. It makes what Gladio’s about to try risky but not impossible. When Cor backs off to adjust his plan of attack, katana still at the ready, Gladio seizes his chance.

As they move towards each other again, Gladio dismisses his greatsword to the Armiger and drops to a crouch, bracing his body on both palms. He uses the inertia to rotate, sweeping his leg out in a forceful arc, praying that he hasn’t misjudged the distance between him and Cor. A joyful, primal thrill fills him as his foot catches the back of Cor’s ankle and sends him sprawling to the ground. Aware of how quickly Cor can recover, Gladio summons his greatsword to hand and leaps, bridging the remaining distance, and levels his blade to Cor’s chest.

The thrill takes on an electric charge when Gladio meets Cor’s eyes, their sylleblossom blue depths filled with genuine shock. It lasts for all of an instant before the shock fades to an even more surprising emotion—pride.

“You going to help me up or stand there gloating?” Cor asks. It’s the first time Gladio’s heard him sound… breathless. Between his voice and his prone position on the ground, shirt damp with sweat and chest heaving, it unfurls a tinge of dark heat low in Gladio’s stomach. He clamps down on the urge and shoves it away before he gets a chance to examine it too closely. Clearly his wires are a little crossed from the unexpected victory.

“Can you blame me for wanting to savor this moment a little, Marshal?” Gladio asks with an easy, proud grin. He reaches down to Cor and offers him a hand up. “Getting my first win against you ain’t exactly nothing.”

He’s not expecting Cor to grip his upper forearm instead of his hand; the way their arms lay against one another ratchets the budding tension higher and higher. How many times has Cor pulled him up like this after laying him out on the mats? It’s a strange reversal to be the one standing above Cor, to be the one being looked up to, no matter how quickly the moment passes.

“It’s about time,” Cor says once he’s off the ground, crossing his arms and fixing Gladio with a level stare. “I was beginning to doubt the sincerity of your efforts.”

Gladio laughs at this and throws a half-tattooed arm around Cor’s shoulders, surprised anew when Cor doesn’t push him away. “Hey, I always take this seriously.” After thumping Cor on the back a few times, he lets go, the physical contact threatening to breach walls Gladio’s not ready to to tear down—that he might not ever be ready to tear down.

Cor says nothing for a time. He fixes Gladio with an inscrutable gaze, his eyes half lidded and head tilted ever so slightly to one side. The intensity of his regard makes Gladio’s heart beat harder in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion. He breaks eye contact and walks over to retrieve his katana before facing Gladio again.

“Do it again,” he says, tone even and unreadable, “and then I’ll be impressed.”

* * *

When Gladio finished re-telling his story, he waited, and waited, and waited some more.

Maybe trying to explain any of this had been a mistake. Maybe he was way off the mark. Maybe Gilgamesh would do Gladio the honor of killing him so he wouldn’t have to face Cor’s pity and derision. He focused instead on the chill of the Tempering Grounds, on the crackle of the campfire, on the smooth leather of his Crownsguard fatigues under his palms—anything to curb the sudden resurgence of doubt.

“So this truly is about your ego, then?” Cor finally asked, lifting his eyes from the flickering fire to meet Gladio’s. “You want to succeed where I’ve failed. To beat me at my own game, though I’ve told you it’s a fool’s errand.”

Shit. Maybe he hadn’t been obvious _enough_.

“No,” Gladio said, shifting on inflexible plateau of rock that served as their makeshift camp. When Cor’s stare turned from neutral to disbelieving, Gladio continued. “Well, yeah, I guess it is, but that’s not the only reason. I’m not…” He took a breath to steady himself. “I ain’t doing this to spite you or show you up. If I just needed someone to kick my ass, I could have asked you without going after the Blademaster.”

“Then why?”

Gladio considered any number of answers: because he’d been thrust into the role of Shield with no warning; because he’d failed in the first true, real test of his duty against the High Commander; because he needed more strength to protect Noct, a burden entrusted to him since birth that he was now expected to bear in the midst of turmoil and chaos.

But underneath all the big picture answers that Gladio was fine confessing to aloud, there was the one he couldn’t say, one he needed Cor to meet him halfway on.

He wanted Cor to see him as an equal, not his charge. To see him as a man, as _Gladio,_ not as his charge or as Shield of the Chosen King.

“Do you remember what you said to me when I was sworn in as Noct’s Shield?” Gladio opted to answer a question with a question, to see if he could steer the conversation down the path he wanted it to travel.

Cor gave a tiny snort that counted as his normal laugh. “I said a lot of things, as I recall. Why say in three words what you could say in three hundred? A true Lucian maxim.”

He had a point there. “I don’t mean all the ceremonial crap,” Gladio clarified, “I meant at the end, once the official stuff was done.”

“I do remember, quite well, but I’m curious to hear your version of events.” Gladio might have been imagining it—a trick of fatigue—but to his ears, Cor’s voice dropped half an octave, his tone calm and steady.

Here went nothing.

* * *

Gladio can’t remember the last time his nerves were this shot.

He paces back and forth in the small antechamber they have him waiting in, formal robes swirling around his feet like a cloud of silk. Gladio takes a moment to marvel at the fact that his father wears these day in and day out, nearly every time he’s on duty, and finds a new depth to the respect he already holds for one Clarus Amicitia. He should have tacked on an extra couple of miles to his run this morning. As things stand, he’s filled to the brim with excited, nervous energy and has no outlet to vent it; as amusing as the mental image of him doing laps around his level of the Citadel is, he’s not that desperate.

Not yet.

Gladio pushes back the sleeve of one robe to check his watch—nope, not late. Time is just crawling at a pace so slow it may as well be moving backwards.

The closest basis for comparison he has is his induction into the Crownsguard. That’s been years now, though. Today’s ceremony has roots in a far more ancient tradition, one of a family lineage written in blood oaths to monarchs past, and Gladio’s both proud and nervous about taking his place as the next Amicitia.

The next Shield of the King.

He might have jumped at the soft knock on the door were it not for the heavy robes inhibiting his movement. The door snicks open without Gladio’s acknowledgment. 

“They’re ready for you, my lord,” he says. Gladio can’t remember his name, only his face, one of the Glaive frequently assigned to Noct’s personal guard. 

Gladio bites back the urge to scoff. He hates it when people use an honorific instead of his name. Today of all days, however, he guesses he’s got no room to complain. There’s going to be as much and more in the ceremony that awaits. He wonders briefly why a random glaive was tasked to fetch him—he’d been expecting… hoping for the Marshal—but rolls with the change.

“Thanks,” Gladio says. His voice sounds more confident than he feels, a fact he’s grateful for. The soldier gives him a perfunctory salute before withdrawing from the antechamber.

Back straight, head held high, and footsteps sure, Gladio enters the audience chamber.

The hall teems with people, far more than Gladio expected. He knows logically that the ceremony was open to select members of the nobility as well as the Crownsguard, just as he knows it’s a huge deal for him to be sworn in as Noct’s Shield, a once in a generation event. Other details register as he scans the perimeter of the room, a habit ingrained from his training as Shield. Members of the Kingsglaive are stationed at standard positions for extra security, elegant and elaborate banners bearing the emblem of Lucis hang from the rafters, and nobles pack the makeshift seating on either side of him.

As he continues walking, his gaze falls on the three figures awaiting him at the end of his path. Two aren’t surprising—his father, wearing his own formal Lucian attire, and Noct, dressed in a three piece suit and standing stiff as a board.

Instead of His Majesty, the third figure is Cor, dressed in his Crownsguard fatigues like it’s just another shift instead of Gladio’s swearing in. An ornate, polished sword rests atop a table draped in black silk, within arm’s reach of Cor.

Gladio breaks out into an instant sweat underneath his robes. Though his training has drilled into him time and time again to be prepared for anything, to expect the unexpected, nothing had prepared him for this. Cor presence both complicates and improves the situation—both for the ceremony and his life at large—and Gladio has to take a few deep, calming breaths to steady himself. He keeps walking though, never missing a step, never so much as faltering.

Today is too important for any mistakes, especially mistakes caused by feelings that Gladio has no place having.

He reaches the dias and climbs up the steps, stands at the position indicated in their practice run last week, and keeps his back towards the crowd. His father shoots him what might be an apologetic glance—hard to tell with him—before launching into a speech Gladio knows by heart.

Gladio tries to focus on the words and allow them the chance to truly sink in; Cor’s presence ripples through his focus like a rock thrown into a still pond, the disturbance spreading far and wide from its point of origin. He stands at ease, hands behind his back as he looks out over the crowd, not sparing so much as a glance in Gladio’s direction. Gladio assumes that His Majesty had other, more pressing duties to attend to, or that his ailing health prevented his presence; it makes sense that Cor would take his place due to his rank and position, but...

Noct catches Gladio’s eyes and rolls his own, a brief flick upward instead of the full, elaborate treatment he usually gets. Gladio glares back at him, the same stern glare he gives him when he’s goofing off at practice, taking full advantage of the fact that his back is to the crowd. Noct’s lips twitch before settling back into neutrality. It’s enough to make Gladio focus on the task at hand instead of Cor.

His father goes on for a long, long while about the history of the Amicitia line, the duties of a Shield, and the importance of such a time honoured tradition serving the Lucian kings. It’s the same speel Gladio’s heard since he was little—probably as soon as he was old enough to understand spoken language, knowing his father—and while it’s important to him, he really just needs this to be done.

He’s ready to take his place. He’s been ready for a long time. It’s what he was born to do.

Cor’s name snaps his attention back to the present.

“His Majesty deeply regrets that he cannot be present for today’s ceremony. Standing in as his proxy is Marshal Cor Leonis, who will undertake the swearing in.”

Gladio’s stomach does a gravity defying leap and ends up in his throat. In the countless times he’s pictured this moment, waking and sleeping, never has he imagined that it would be Cor marking his transition from Shield-in-waiting to full blown Shield.

The Astrals sure do have a sense of humor.

His father moves back to his original position to the left of Gladio. Noctis waits to his right, more antsy by the minute. Cor takes a step forward, placing himself within arm’s reach of Gladio, and Gladio can’t look away. The light streaming down from the high, vaulted windows of the audience chamber highlights Cor in a way that borders on divine. It strikes Gladio that he may have just committed mental blasphemy, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s pretty sure the Astrals don’t care, either.

Cor’s features are steely and resolute as he picks up the sword from the table, hilt embedded with gemstones and blade sheathed. He turns his attention to Gladio, and though he has to tilt his chin upward to make eye contact, the confidence Cor exudes makes them feel of a height.

“What is the duty of a Shield?” Cor asks, gaze unyielding.

“The duty of a Shield is to protect his King,” Gladio answers, the words leaving his lips by rote.

“To what length does a Shield go to protect his King?”

“A Shield stands ready to protect his King at any cost, including that of his life.”

“When does a Shield’s duty end?”

“A Shield’s duty ends when his life does, or that of his King.” Gladio sweats beneath the smothering weight of his robes and Cor’s unflinching, stern expression.

“Do you swear to uphold these oaths as Shield, Gladiolus Amicitia, one hundred and fourteenth of your line?”

“I swear,” Gladio says, resolute and strong. He’s never heard Cor speak his full name before, not in all the years he’s known him, and the effect dizzies him.

Cor turns to Noctis. “Do you, Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, accept these sworn oaths as spoken by your Shield?”

“I accept,” Noctis replies, voice surprisingly clear.

There’s a clear ring as Cor draws forth the ceremonial sword from its scabbard. The elegant blade glimmers in the noon hour sun, its jeweled pommel scattering rainbow refractions on the floor around Gladio.

“Kneel,” Cor commands.

Gladio sinks to one knee, head bowed and heart pounding.

“By the authority granted to me by King Regis Lucis Caelum, one hundred and thirteenth monarch of the line of Lucis, I witness the oaths you have sworn and task you to uphold them until your dying breath.”

His father and Noct both watch him intently, but Gladio fixates on Cor.

When the weight of the weapon settles on his left shoulder, Gladio lifts his face and meets Cor’s eyes, his gaze as heavy as the sword resting on his body. The world has narrowed to the two of them, to a charged moment of connection, to an understanding conferred by the kiss of a blade. There’s an instant where Cor’s pale blue eyes shift and change, asking him a silent question: _do you grasp the weight of the burden placed upon you?_

Yes, Gladio thinks as Cor removes the sword and the ritual comes to an end, he does. He rises in one smooth motion, never breaking eye contact, the room filled with solemn silence. Gladio stands tall and proud, officially a Shield and one step closer to being Cor’s equal. 

The Marshal’s lingering glance only reminds Gladio that there are still new heights to aspire to… if he ever gets the courage to try.

Pushing that sentiment aside for another day, Gladio smiles, turns, and faces the gathered crowd.

* * *

“I trained you poorly if you were that distracted by an itinerary change,” Cor said wryly.

“It wasn’t the itinerary change,” Gladio corrected. He scoffed quietly and went to pack up the garbage from their meal. Anything to keep his hands busy, to distract him from the truth he was on the verge of unveiling. Once the styrofoam cups were cleared, he sat back down beside Cor, a little closer to the Marshal than he’d been before.

“Then what was it?”

You.

The answer sprang to Gladio’s mind instantly, but he couldn’t force his tongue and lips to give shape to the word. Letting go of a secret he’d spent years guarding was… harder than he thought it would be. But his time was running out. Soon, Gladio would face the Blademaster, and if he didn’t say it now…

He might never get the chance.

“You really gonna make me spell it out for you?” Gladio asked, hunched over, mind churning.

Cor leaned towards Gladio, the dwindling campfire casting dramatic shadows over his features. His brows drew together in a minute frown. “Yes.”

It’d be easier to go tear more pillars out of the ground and bash some ghouls with them. Hell, maybe it was time to abort the whole damn plan, change the subject, forget he’d ever started down this road of telling Cor every prominent role he played in Gladio’s memory. Of how important he was to Gladio—had _always_ been to Gladio. His cheeks began to heat in a way that had nothing to do with the flame in front of them.

“I…” Gladio started before breaking off with a sigh. “Never mind. Just talking a lot ‘cause I’m nervous, I guess.”

“Gladio.” If Cor had spoken his name in the same stern, unchanging way he always had, Gladio might have kept staring at the cave floor. It was hard to put his finger on the emotion filling the spaces between the syllables, but if Gladio had to describe it, he’d say it was sincerity. “It’s unlike you to back down when challenged.”

“Didn’t hear any challenge,” Gladio said, staring off into the cavernous confines of the Tempering Grounds, building back the walls around his secret brick by brick.

“Allow me to present one to you, then,” Cor offered. There were no hints to be gleaned from the set of his eyes or mouth, only more of the same, frustrating neutrality. “Tell me when your feelings changed.”

Shock widened Gladio’s eyes. Once he got control of his body again, he blinked once, twice, three times, slow and deliberate. His pulse roared to life in his ears, drowning out all the ambient noise in a sudden rush of blood. He debated playing it off, making a joke, denying it, but he’d already let too much time pass for the act to be believable.

Cor knew. Cor knew, and Gladio had no idea how long he’d known. Had he figured it out somewhere in all this storytelling, in the recounting of all the pivotal moments where yes, Gladio was _very_ interested in the Marshal? Had he figured it out years ago, when his feelings began in earnest?

Didn’t matter. This was what he wanted, right? No time like the present.

“You remember when I got my scar?” Gladio asked, tentative, daring himself to meet Cor’s eyes and succeeding.

“Of course.”

“Yeah, well…” Deep breath, Gladio. Just fucking come out with it. “That’s when I knew.”

* * *

Gladio decides bedrest is complete bullshit two days into his mandated week. 

The doctor had said something about not wanting to risk additional trauma to the eye—and yeah, he gets it, a one-eyed Shield isn’t exactly what anyone wants, least of all Gladio—but it’s killing him to be so… stationary. Idle. There’s only so much reading and playing on his phone he can take before the urge hits him to get up, run, lift, train, _anything_. He hasn’t spent this much time in his room since he was thirteen and began his role at the Citadel for real.

Being waited on hand and foot is overrated.

Gladio sighs and slumps back into his pillows. Six, his bandages are itchy, and he’s already tired of having his depth perception shot to shit. His fault for not having a potion on hand the night Noct got attacked; it’s a mistake he won’t make again, that’s for sure.

He reaches out and fiddles with the flower arrangement on his bedside table, a multi coloured bunch of gladiolus flowers that Jared has placed in an elegant crystal vase. There’s been lots of flowers, cards, and congratulations, and while Gladio appreciates the sentiment, at the end of the day he was just doing his job.

A knock on his door draws him out of his thoughts. It’s too soft to be Iris—actually, Iris wouldn’t knock at all, the scamp—so it must be Jared.

“Come in,” Gladio says.

Jared opens the door and enters the room, a warm smile spread across his features. “You have a visitor, Master Gladiolus.”

“Gladio,” he corrects out of habit, which only prompts Jared to smile wider.

Jared makes some polite reply, probably with the undertone of congenial snark he’s come to expect, but Gladio doesn’t hear a word of it, because Cor has stepped into his bedroom. Gladio sits up straighter in his bed and coughs, if only for an excuse to turn his face away and shore up his composure. It’s not as though Cor hasn’t been to their house any number of times before, but the fact that he’s standing in Gladio’s bedroom like it’s an everyday occurance has him a bit rattled.

“Thank you, Jared,” Cor tells their family chamberlain, wearing the ghost of a smile, cradling something under his arm that Gladio can’t quite make out.

They’re alone in the room as soon as Jared sketches out a bow and leaves.

“Hey, Marshal,” Gladio says to break the silence.

He must look nervous, because Cor _chuckles_ , an honest to Six laugh that makes Gladio’s heart twinge in his chest. “Relax, Gladio. I’m not here because of work, only here to visit.”

Work isn’t what he’s riled up about, not by a long shot, but he plays along anyway. “Good. I think one crisis this week suits me just fine,” he replies with a grin. Gladio points to the bandaged side of his face. “Even got a nice souvenir for the trouble.”

“Perhaps the first of many,” Cor says noncommittally, walking across the carpeted floor to stand beside Gladio’s bed. His mouth quirks up in the suggestion of a grin as he takes in the various balloons, floral arrangements, and cards around the bed. “Such an outpouring of admiration. I didn’t bring any flowers.”

“Don’t think there’s much room for more anyway,” Gladio says with a shrug.

“I didn’t come empty handed, however.” Cor untucks a fancy crystal bottle of what might be whiskey from under his arm and sets it on Gladio’s bedside table with a thump. “For when you’re cleared by the doctor. And off duty. Don’t let Clarus find it, though, or you’ll never see it again.” 

“Thanks,” Gladio says as his mind races. A visit. A laugh. A smile. A gift. Any one of these elements coming from Cor would be a spectacular display in and of itself, but all together… it’s a lot. “You didn’t have to get me anything, but I appreciate it.”

Cor snorts. “Of course I didn’t have to. Have you ever known me to go out of my way for mere pleasantries’ sake?”

“No,” Gladio says, almost tacking on a sir, “you’re right. Thanks again.” He studies his lap to hide his sudden, bashful grin.

He’s an idiot. It doesn’t mean anything, no matter how much he wants it to.

“I couldn’t be bothered to mail a card, so…” Cor starts. He falters mid-sentence, which draws Gladio’s attention. “I came to congratulate you on a job well done in person.”

Huh. That’s new.

“Just doing my job, Marshal,” Gladio says, echoing his earlier thoughts aloud. “I gotta start pushing Noct harder so he can pitch in next time.” He gives a little laugh at his own joke.

Cor doesn’t laugh, not this time, choosing instead to fix Gladio with a somber, serious gaze. “There’s no need to downplay your accomplishment. It’s one thing to swear the oath of a Shield and another thing entirely to uphold it in the heat of the moment.”

Not only is this more words than Gladio’s ever heard Cor speak in a ten minute period, it’s also the highest compliment he’s ever been paid by the Marshal. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t cut it, so Gladio opts for honesty. “That means a lot coming from the Immortal himself. Coming from you, I mean.”

Cor takes one step closer, closing the remaining gap between his body and Gladio’s bed, and meets his eyes. When he reaches out and rests a hand on Gladio’s shoulder, his heart pounds a joyful, furious cadence against his ribs. They’ve touched a million times during training, inconsequential and meaningless, accidental brushes that have no bearing on matters of the heart. But this…

“You performed your duty admirably, Gladio. I’m proud of you,” Cor says. He gives Gladio’s tattooed shoulder a infinitesimal squeeze, the pressure like a whisper given physical form.

And then Cor smiles. It’s… soft. Kind. Gentle. Proud. It’s all of the things Gladio’s been chasing, longing for, _dreaming_ for across the years made manifest in the subtle curve of Cor’s lips. 

Gladio surrenders. He lays down the shield of denial he’s been using to fend off the truth, undone by a single smile. The nature of the stirrings that sibilate in his heart each time Cor’s near have been made instantly, abundantly, painfully clear. He makes no effort to hide the realization; if Gladio could see himself in a mirror, he’s sure his gaze would be raw and open and to hell with it, he doesn’t care.

“Thank you,” Gladio says, because what else can he say? He reaches up and grabs Cor’s hand, the one that rests on his shoulder, forging the connection he’s been fighting for so very long. It’s rough and warm and calloused and _perfect_ in his grip. Gladio never wants to let go.

“You’re welcome,” Cor replies. Have his eyes always been this blue, Gladio wonders, or is it just the first time he’s let himself stare? “I’m certain you’ll continue to be a fine Shield.”

A fine Shield. Not a fine _man_. Right.

“Gonna do my best, that’s for damn sure.” Gladio says, releasing his grip on Cor’s hand, which Cor then removes from his shoulder.

He shouldn’t be so bereft by the absence of Cor’s touch, but he is.

They talk for a while, the conversation meandering in more familiar directions, one less fraught with ‘what ifs’ and ‘might bes’. But all Gladio wonders, all he _can_ wonder, is if he’s doomed to be stuck as Cor’s student for the rest of his Six-damned life.

* * *

There. The words were out in the open and couldn’t be taken back, couldn’t be unsaid. Now, if things went tits up with the Blademaster, Gladio could cross one regret off his list.

Cor’s silence was deafening. An utter absence of response wasn’t usually how Gladio pictured this whole declaration going, but then again, it was Cor, so silence was pretty standard.

“To make a really long story short… yeah. I _am_ that interested in you,” Gladio said, borrowing the phrase from the question that started it all. When Cor didn’t respond, Gladio continued. “Guess we should pack up. Trial ain’t gonna take itself.”

A hand on his shoulder stopped Gladio. A hand on his shoulder in the same spot as three years ago, a ghost of the touch that ignited a secret, spectral fire hidden in Gladio’s heart.

“Wait.” Cor infused the word with equal parts command and request, but Gladio would have obeyed anyway.

Gladio waited, but words failed him. He considered pushing Cor’s hand aside, but the brush of calloused fingers against his bare skin held him in place, tingling and electric.

Cor lifted his eyes from the fire to Gladio and gripped his shoulder tight. “Is this truly what you want?”

“Do you really have to ask? After everything I’ve said?” Gladio placed his hand atop Cor’s, reliving the memory he couldn’t seem to shake from his thoughts no matter how hard he tried.

“I need you to be clear, Gladio,” Cor said, voice low and ragged. _Astrals_. Gone was the guarded stoicism Gladio was intimately familiar with; instead, Cor’s gaze was stripped down, vulnerable, almost _pleading_. It was a silent question of a different kind.

Gladio answered the only way he knew how.

He leaned in close, sliding Cor’s hand from his shoulder to his chest, his palm burning hot through the thin fabric of Gladio’s singlet. Before hesitation could stop him, Gladio tilted his head and did what he’d been longing to do since that day in his bedroom—he kissed Cor.

The chaste, firm press of his mouth against Cor’s sent a wave of heat spiralling through Gladio’s limbs, a searing rush of a desire he’d fought for so long. If he focused, he could narrow down individual sensations: the texture of Cor’s lips, the puffs of Cor’s breath against his skin, and the spicy, sharp scent of him. Gladio gripped Cor’s wrist as he drew back, steadying himself, staying close enough to share the same air as Cor, breathing him in.

The kiss must have worked to erode whatever reservations Cor had left, because he reached out and drew Gladio closer, his arms wrapped around Gladio’s waist. Gladio shifted to accommodate the tangle of their limbs, kneeling on one knee with Cor slotted between his legs. 

When Cor kissed him again, there was a brush of tongue against Gladio’s lips, gentle and insistent. Gladio breathed out a sigh through his nose, closed his eyes again, and yielded; a shiver coursed through him at the depth of the kiss, at the urgency of the exchange, at the slide of Cor’s tongue against his own, and at the knowledge that Cor returned his affection enough to drink him down with such eagerness. Cor’s hands pressed against the small of Gladio’s back, urging him closer, their bodies fitted together in every place they touched.

It was Cor who drew back this time, pupils wide and eyes half lidded, palms meandering up and down Gladio’s spine in idle passes.

“Please tell me we don’t have to talk about this anymore,” Gladio said with a quiet laugh, bringing his forehead to rest against Cor’s, relishing in their closeness. He stifled a gasp as Cor’s hands fisted in the fabric of his singlet.

“Just come back alive, Gladio. Then we’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3 Comments and kudos are appreciated if you enjoyed.
> 
> shoutout to [xylianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xylianna/pseuds/Xylianna) for her beta services and to [roadsoftrial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadsoftrial/pseuds/roadsoftrial) for her brainstorming assistance.
> 
> Come find me screaming about Cordio for the next six months over on [Tumblr](http://aliatori.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AliatoriEra).


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